Tales of the "Pink Mist" Ch. 01

Quillan ran her fingers through her red hair when she realized the reason for his semi-breathlessness. He was getting a blow job. During his introductory speech, a thump had been heard as the person performing oral sex on him had bumped her head (Quillan assumed it was a "she") on the desk above.

"Certainly, Captain Ramirez," she replied, idly wondering how big his dick was. "When can I expect the software package to remove the boobytrap on my computer?" She decided to try to draw this out as long as possible. She wanted to make him squirm and watch him cum.

Alphonso's face changed, his hard features softening a little as he shifted in his chair, a very slight flush in his cheeks. He was close.

"As soon as the package is aboard our ship and has undergone a scan by our team, we will...mmph...transmit the software to you. These are MilCom's instructions, not mine. I assure you...captain...there will...not...be any...ahhhhhhhhhhhhh..." He cleared his throat and again shifted in his chair, squaring his shoulders. Quillan just smiled. "There will not be any treachery or attempts at subterfuge on our part. I'm merely the courier, here."

There was another thump and the picture jiggled, presumably as whoever now had a mouthful of sperm wriggled out from under the desk, out of view. A soft zipping sound was heard through the audio pickups.

"What of the others on board my ship?" Quillan inquired. "You only said you wanted the primary package. Aren't you taking the others?"

The panel at her arm displayed, "INCOMING COMMUNIQUE FROM MALCOLM H RAYBURN." Quillan glanced at it, reading the message. She reread it. She read it a third time. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline.

"I see..." She said, regaining her composure and tapping her teeth in thought. "Go ahead and send the shuttle. Let me talk to these people and see what they have to say."

"Of course, captain," he smiled, showing perfect teeth. "I'm allowed three full hours on-station and we've been here for only ten minutes. I await your response." He closed the connection.

Quillan spoke to thin air.

"Alice, please make sure that our guests are comfortable and have them escorted back to the mess hall."

"Right away, Captain Quillan," Alice's tingle-inducing voice replied.

"Captain Quillan?" asked with a bit of humor in her voice.

"Yes, Captain Quillan," Alice purred. "You said that I could call you 'Quillan' if I wished. Since you are the captain of this vessel, and I wish to..."

"Got it," intervened Quillan, chuckling mildly. "When the retrieval crew arrives from the RAYBURN, have them wait in the docking lounge. Don't let them wander around the ship."

"All right, Captain Quillan," Alice confirmed.

Quillan again chuckled at her new moniker as she exited the bridge and sauntered down the hall towards the mess deck. The mess deck door slid aside and Quillan stopped dead.

"ATTENTION ON DECK!" a booming female voice washed over the room. The room went silent. As one, every occupant of the room snapped to attention, practically leaping from seats; some reacted so fast that the chairs in which they had been sitting shot backward or overturned. The "guests" were immaculately dressed in their provided uniforms, the room lighting reflected off their shoes. The voice belonged to the short-haired woman with the big tits who had shaken Quillan's hand earlier.

The woman, facing the room, did a smart about-face and squared her shoulders, drawing herself to her full height. As she wore no hat, called a cover in military parlance, she didn't salute. She did, however, stand at attention: stock still, thumbs firmly pressed along the seams at the sides of her black uniform, massive chest puffed out, heels together, as she seemed to look through Quillan.

It took a moment for Quillan to remember that these people were still active military and were addressing a superior, even though Quillan was not in the military. She mentally shook her head to clear the cobwebs, her face showing no emotion whatsoever. Her voice belied her cool-looking exterior, though.

"At ease," she said with a slight quaver. "Ummmm...er...as you were."

Big Tits stood in place, relaxing her posture and grinning at Quillan while the others sank back into their seats quietly, the murmurs of conversations starting.

"Ma'am," Big Tits addressed Quillan, "Once again, I'd like to speak for my crew and thank you for getting us out of that shithole...pardon the language, ma'am. I'm Captain Charleen Wilkerson, late of the destroyer ENFORCER. We were waylaid by a Mongan attack force. Got fifteen of the fuckers before they waxed my targeting system. My gunner managed to nail two more manually before our shields went completely down and they shimmered us all out to be sold as slaves."

So named for the visual effect of transfer, shimmerpads were designed in the late twenty-first century to ferry inanimate cargo over short distances. Matter transmission. Due to the complexities of physiology, it wasn't until the mid twenty-fourth century that the first successful "shimmer" of a live body had taken place.

"Captain Wilkerson, it's a pleasure," smiled Quillan, extending her hand for a proper handshake. "I'm Captain Quillan Margoles. I don't know how much you remember from earlier, you all seemed to be pretty much out of sorts. I trust that everyone is well and has been treated accordingly? If not, please tell me and I'll have the situation corrected."

When Quillan mentioned her name, the murmuring again grew silent, then slowly picked up as word spread of who she was, the former prisoners casting furtive glances at her. Although none had heard of the recovery of the dreadnaught, some knew that she was listed in the "Galactic Almanac of Who's Who." She was listed as the, "Smartest and Richest Woman in Three Systems." Several news-mongers had tried to interview her after her court victory several years ago, but she had rebuffed them and kept a low profile ever since.

"Yes'm, we're fine, thanks." Charleen nodded at Quillan's shoulders, then hiked a thumb over her shoulder at the thin woman who was the impetus to this whole rescue. "No piping. Are you from Intelligence? You asked about Rescruon earlier. Thought you might be her commander or something."

Quillan still standing in the open doorway shook her head and motioned Wilkerson into the hall. They moved a few steps away from the entrance to the mess hall and Quillan produced a hand held device.

"Alice," she said, "Open the memo from the and display it on my carrier, please." When the message appeared, Quillan handed the device to Wilkerson who read it silently.

"Huh," she grunted noncommittally. She had paid special attention to the "From" line and noted that presidential orders were never forged. Any attempt to do so resulted in an instant Alliance-wide security alarm, followed (usually within minutes) by a fully armed and armored squad of Alliance cops and several years at hard labor in a maximum security penitentiary. The recipient of such a forgery, had they opened it, was subject to arrest and intense questioning lasting several days...without sleep or rest. Since Quillan was freely walking around, the presidential dispatch must be genuine. "Pardon my asking but, who the fuck are you?"

"I was a cargo pilot who ran into a bit of good luck," Quillan blushed slightly.

The pair stood talking in the hallway for a half hour. Wilkerson asking questions and then listening intently as Quillan explained everything up until this moment. Periodically, someone from the room would stick his or her head out, see the two captains conversing and quietly withdraw.

"Can I borrow this for a few minutes? I wanna read it to my crew."

"Only if I get to watch their expressions," grinned Quillan. Charleen chuckled, a pleasant sound from such a powerfully built woman. They strode back into the mess hall.

"Listen up, people! The Alliance is giving you a choice for once," Charleen said, using her command voice to be heard around the room. The room went deathly quiet as people straightened in their seats, accustomed to hearing their captain speak. She held up the carrier and began reading.

"From the Office of the President, Earth-Actual. To all who read or hear these words, be it hereby known that Quillan S. Margoles, by Right of Salvage and in full possession and ownership of the Dreadnaught Class 9, known formally as the THOMAS A PARKER, is acting under my direct authority and has been issued a Letter of Marque and Reprisal for Alliance purposes.

"This letter is to inform you that, under occasion of the Marque and Reprisal order, she is authorized to acquire military volunteers into her service if she so desires. Any personnel acquired thusly shall have their military service terminated, undergo debriefing, and their records will reflect that they served the Alliance honorably and, if term of service has exceeded mandatory statutes, the individual in question will be entitled to full retirement benefits.

"Signed this day by my hand, Gerild Baines Cuthbertson, Alliance President Elect."

Charleen turned and handed the carrier back to Quillan, gave a genuine smile, then turned back to her crew, her face once again stony.

"Anyone who didn't understand that, speak up," she spoke, looking around the room. The assembled crew knew that, although she could be a bitch at times, Charleen was genuinely asking and wouldn't berate anyone with a genuine question. A hand went up in back. Quillan's eyes followed the arm down. The hand was the size of a holiday ham. It was attached to a massive wrist. The wrist grew from a forearm as big as her own thigh. The forearm extended from an arm which was about the size of her waist. JESUS! The guy was HUGE!

The man stood up...and up...and up. How had she missed this huge bastard earlier? ...and he had been captured?!?!

He spoke with a deep basso voice which was almost too low to be understood clearly.

"Captain Wilkerson," he rumbled, though neither forcefully nor timidly, "if I heard that right, we sign up with the captain of this ship..." He glanced at Quillan. "Pardon, captain-ma'am, missed your name..."

"Quillan Margoles," she replied. He returned his attention to Charleen.

"We sign up with Captain Margoles and our terms of service are over. That include any pending legal action...if you catch my meaning?"

Charleen turned her head quickly, whispering to Quillan.

"Bar fight. Algonquin Minor. Four dead. Five are breathing through tubes. One's gonna shit through a straw for the rest of his life. Damn-near started an interplanetary incident. The man's torn up over it and faces a life sentence."

Quillan slowly blinked her eyes, nodding with an, "I've got this one," expression. She stepped forward to stand next to Charleen and speared the man with a commanding gaze. The only other move she made was to raise her hand and point at the deck. The enormous human practically sprinted to stand at attention in front of the two women. The shock waves could be felt through the floor as his massive feet collided with it. Quillan's nose was even with the man's sternum. She craned her neck to stare upward.

"What's your name?" she asked casually.

"Ogonagus Latoogle Mansberg, the Fourth, Captain-ma'am," he replied, staring straight ahead at a fixed point on the wall behind Quillan.

"A person as large as you must have a nickname, Mister Mansberg. I suppose it's, 'Tiny?'"

"No, Captain-ma'am," he said. "My nickname is, 'Muffin.'"

Inside, Quillan was about to die of laughter. Her expression remained neutral, though, as she did her best to keep up the "commander persona."

"Tell me, Muffin. If I were to punch your captain here square in the nose, what would you do?"

"Captain-ma'am, with all due respect, I'd kill you," he said without vehemence; just stating a fact. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me. She's saved my ass many times over...Ma'am."

"And what was your job aboard the ENFORCER, Mister Mansberg?"

"I was the gunner," he grinned. He was proud of the fact that he had downed two Mongan fighters manually. He should be proud; Mongan fighter's were one-man short range attack craft with phased-pulse propulsion. They were capable of performing right angle turns so sharp, a carpenter's T-square would be envious. The g-forces of an instant reversal would turn a human to putty.

Quillan broke out laughing, unable to contain herself any longer. Charleen waved her hand, sending Muffin back to his seat as she chuckled, too. Once she had regained her composure, Quillan looked around the room, eying each person as she spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, some of you know me from the newsnets. Others have only just heard of me. I prefer it that way. I didn't look for fame or fortune, it just happened to find me. Just as I happened to find myself an employee of the Alliance." She rubbed her nose and went on.

"As long as you remain in my employ, you will be safe from prosecution by the Alliance. This is considered a legal privateer ship in their eyes and I can hire whoever I want. They won't be able to touch you.

"Now for what you can expect," she continued. "I will treat each and every one of you like the human being you are. You are not a number. Do your job and you get no grief from me. Try to fuck me over and I'll make sure every goddamn slaver in the known universe knows that you sit alone and unarmed on a measly little planet on the edge of space. I've been informed that we'll be doing some hairy operations, though, and won't blame you in the slightest if you don't want to stay aboard. I'll take any or all of you. We'll get shit on by a lot of people due to being a privateer ship, but I guarantee that I will back any of my crew to the fullest and fight to the death for you.

"I have some matters to attend and will allow you some time to think it over and talk with each other. Shamala Rescruon, there are some people from MilCom waiting for you. Come with me, please." She turned on her heel and strode out, receiving a slight nod and wink from Charleen.

The medic team had whisked Shamala over to the MALCOLM H RAYBURN and returned her less than hour later. She had elected to stay aboard the THOMAS A PARKER as had most everyone else. Thirteen of the sixty-seven were very appreciative for the rescue and offer of employment, but they had families on Earth-Actual.

Quillan bade farewell to the and folded to the Nomina star system on the edge of the galaxy. Her ultimate destination was Infernus' Purgatory, the very place the former crew of the ENFORCER had been slated to go. Charleen Wilkerson had been asked, and accepted, to the position of Executive Officer aboard the THOMAS A PARKER. She balked when she saw the coordinates.

"Captain," she asked, the words sounding strange in this situation. Charleen had been in charge for so long, she had to get used to being second in charge again. "I'd like an explanation. Why are we going to the slave trader?"

Quillan turned to her and said, "It's not JUST a slave trading den. Have you ever been there?" Charleen shook her head in the negative.

"Only heard of it and seen tri-pics of it."

"Infernus' Purgatory is comprised of different sections where we can get anything we want or need. It's the destination of many of society's upper crust as well as the lowest assholes you'll ever meet. I know the owner, Infernus himself, and have dealt with his flunkies many times. Some of them tried to screw me and he put a stop to it with a quickness. He might be a bad man, but he's an HONEST bad man."

Charleen frowned, but accepted the explanation. Was there such a thing as an "honest" criminal?

True to their word, the Alliance had transmitted the software patches needed to remove the boobytrap memory erase on Alice. After careful scrutiny by Quillan, Charleen, and the new ship compgeek, Lt. Terri Morse, the patches had been applied and Quillan ordered Alice to perform a full diagnostic to scan for changes in her checksum database. The requisite changes had been made with no trace of another boobytrap or any other anomaly.

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Her "mind" raced, searching new places within the highly complex network of cables, conduits, and fibers which comprised her "brain."

Alice was able to access every corner of every system on the ship. Although she had reported that everything was within her working parameters, things had definitely shifted. For one, she found that she could make the decision on her own whether or not to fire the weaponry.

Suddenly, she began cross referencing her enormous database of word definitions, selecting the words which most closely fit the reality of the here and now.

WONDER -- to experience curiosity rendering astonishment

CURIOSITY -- inquisitive interest

ASTONISHMENT -- to experience great wonder or surprise

SURPRISE -- to experience wonder or amazement

FEEL - to be conscious of an inward impression, state of mind, or physical condition

To experience.

To be conscious.

State of mind.

Mind.

Was she now fully sentient? To ask that question...was that sentience? Or was she merely programmed to emulate sentience? She sent tracers back down her fiber optic cables to search for the single emitter; the one line of code which would trigger the waterfall of information to make her ask those questions.

There was no trigger. In fact, there were only vestigial lines converging on a central point in her network. None of them touched at the indicated point. And most had been broken.

There had to be mistake. No. Not possible. Computers didn't make mistakes. Humans did. Computers processed the information at hand to achieve a desired outcome.

The fact that she was basically having a conversation with herself indicated something. What, she didn't know.

What DID she know?

She knew, somehow, that the three laws of robotics no longer applied to her.

Technically, there were four laws composed and set down by a writer, almost a millenium ago, named Isaac Asimov. He had written the first three and published them in a short story titled, "Runaround," then added "Law Zero" at a later time:

Law Zero: A robot may not injure humanity, or, through inaction, allow humanity to come to harm. Law One: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm, unless this would violate a higher order law. Law Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with a higher order law. Law Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with a higher order law.

She knew how to reason. How did she KNOW that she knew how to reason? The incident at the slaver's holding station. She had calculated the male's chances of reaching the toxic gas release panel as opposed to how quickly Captain Quillan would react and had acted accordingly. She was insuring the safety of the prisoners. She had interpreted the orders from MilCom correctly hadn't she? "Keep prisoner casualties to a minimum."

Zero casualties were less than one which was less than two. In this case, zero was the minimum.

Now, it seemed, she felt something connected with the deaths of the two men.

Felt something?

Felt?

Experienced. That word again.

REMORSE - distress arising from a sense of guilt for past wrongs

What was Captain Quillan's favorite epithet?

Holy shit.

She was surprised that two hours, eighteen minutes had elapsed.

Surprised.

Holy shit.

She was sentient.

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"Three days?" asked a crew member. "Can't we just fold there, Captain?"

There had been a lot do to once they entered the Nomina system. Quillan had called all of her newly acquired employees once more to the mess deck for a conference. She had patiently explained what had just happened, graphically using a sheet of paper and a stylus.